the sick can supply. So she was very glad to relinquish her charge into Kathleen's hands, and the latter at once took her place as nurse.

For a few days hands and heart and brain were fully occupied, and the girl had no time to think, which was, perhaps, quite as well. Under her tender care, the sick one came gradually back to life, helpless still as a little child, but quite conscious and free from pain. Doctor Lancaster said she might live weeks, perhaps months, in that

state.

And now that the first fierce strain of care and anxiety and constant watching was lifted from her heart, Kathleen began to wonder why she got no letters. She knew Mark Delavan too well to think that he would give her up so easily. She loved him too well to lose faith in him. That he loved her, she would not doubt. She knew the patient, persistent, steadfast nature, and she never doubted that he would write to her, perhaps would come to her. A week went by, and still no tidings. Sitting one day thinking it over, she suddenly remembered that by some strange oversight she had forgotten to mention in her note, or to the Arbuthnots, or even to Mrs. Morris, the name of the place in Connecticut where Aunt Mary was stopping. For a moment her heart stood still. Then she remembered that Mrs. Morris knew her Quinticook address, and that letters would probably be sent there with the request that they be remailed to her. So she wrote at once to the postmaster at Quinticook, ordering all the letters sent to Chequishnoc and again waited patiently. Still no letters. Weeks grew into months. Aunt Mary lingered on in the gentle, helpless state of childhood, a steady care and burden, yet the dearest of cares to Kathleen, who never faltered in her tender ministry, and kept always a brave, bright face and cheerful tone and sweet smile for the sick-room, and never wavered, though her heart was breaking with the double strain of sorrow and suspense, and that "hope deferred that maketh the heart sick."

leaving her in her loneliness and sorrow without one word of sympathy or kindly interest.

And sometimes, in spite of her loving woman's faith, a darker suspicion would come. Had he, perhaps, only been playing with her? Had her sudden departure given him an easy solution to what was becoming a rather troublesome question? She had heard of such things. But no one who knew Mark Delavan could believe such a thing possible, still less the woman who loved him. More than most men, he impressed upon every one his perfect, straightforward, uncompromising integrity. His was pre-eminently the face

"True and tender and brave and just,
That man might honor and woman trust."

And this woman, upon whose brow his kiss had fallen, never faltered in her faith, though her cheeks grew pale and the light faded from her eyes, and her heart grew very weak and weary from its long waiting.

Winter came, and the snow fell closely about the lonely farm-house, and there were short, sharp days and long, sorrowful nights. Kathleen brought her easel into the sick-room, and in her few brief intervals of leisure worked away at her brush, "to keep busy," she said, when good Dr. Lancaster expostulated with her.

The doctor shook his head; he did not know the sharp pain at the girl's heart, that made it necessary for her to "keep busy," that she might not think.

When the first bright days of spring came, and the snows were melting from the brown hillocks beneath the April sun, Aunt Mary's summons came, and she entered upon the eternal springtime. Kathleen's long watching was over and she was alone in the world.

She went down to Quintnook and laid Aunt Mary in the old church-yard, where all the MacLeods slept. Then she went back to the old house, her only home, to rest for a few days and to plan for the future-the dark, desolate days that stretched before her, and that must be livedsomehow. Friends came about her, old schoolmates and neighbors, and would have welcomed her to their homes, but she steadily refused. She wanted to be alone in those first desolate days.

Her old place in the seminary was filled. There was nothing for her to do in Quintnook, and work must be sought elsewhere.

She was at liberty now to carry out a longcherished plan of going abroad to study, but Aunt Mary's long illness, and the consequent idleness, had made sad inroads on her slender funds. A year of patient and paying work would be necessary before she could venture to carry out her purpose.

But she was ready to work; not, indeed, with the old girlish enthusiasm and ambition, but still with a steady purpose and a noble aim. Since live she must, it should not be a useless life. If the sweetest earthly blessing was denied her, she could yet show to an incredulous world

"How grand may be life's might,

Without love's circling crown."

"I thought once that I did not care for him," she said to herself in those days. "I meant to live for my art,-to do grand work and win a name, and God has taken me at my word. He has just shown me how beautiful life might be; He has let me see the worth of that which I esteemed of little value, and now He has taken it away and given me my choice. I was not worthy, and I will be patient, and by and by, perhaps, content." But a little comfort came to her at this time. She learned that her order, requesting letters sent to Chequishnoc, had never been received at Quintnook post-office, and, therefore, all her letters had been sent to the Dead-Letter Office, that grave of so many unfortunate epistles.

"There were some," the old postmaster said, in answer to her anxious inquiry, looking musingly over his glasses; "I don't justly know how many. I believe there was a gentleman here inquiring about them, too, and about your address, but it was while I was gone to Philadelphy, and Sim Higgins was here, and he didn't know, nor I, either, for that matter." And one of her old neighbors told her that twice a gentleman had called there, it being next door to her old home, and inquired about her and the name of the place where Aunt Mary went. "But I couldn't remember it to save me, dear, nor Hezekiah, neither; it was a kind of outlandish name, you know. He was a tall man with a light moustache, and eyes that looked right through you,-handsome, if he hadn't looked so down-hearted like, and he walked all around the old house and sat down on the doorstep and sat there a long time. The first time was in October. I remember because it was the day

after we had the sewing-circle; and the last time

let me see-December! no-it must have been about New Year's, and he stayed a long time, and seemed to hate to go away, and asked if he could get boarded here, or anywhere in town, and said perhaps he should come back, but he never has." The good lady looked curiously at Kathleen as she concluded, as if hoping that she might throw some light on the strange occurrence; but the girl turned away indifferently and began to talk of something else.

But the bitterness of her cup was gone. He had loved her then-he had tried to find her, and she knew he would never give up the search. Living or dying, they loved each other, and no time or space could quite part them. Sometime, perhaps, in this world, or beyond, they would find one another. Meanwhile, she would wait. Almost happy, she repeated to herself a little snatch of poetry that she had grown fond of:

“Because I am my Love's I'll keep my life

Washed clean of every soil in thought or deed;
And bear my heart with ever steadfast heed
Like a shut rose, through days of dusty strife.
Because I am my Love's I'll rise at dawn,
And hasten to my toil, and toiling, sing,
That from my own poor talent there may spring
Something for my Love's eyes to shine upon,
And so make good the empty years agone.
Because I am my Love's I will not die-
As lovers might-to prove my fealty;

But I'll so live, that, in some distant time,
My love shall say, 'Bless God, who made you mine.''

Going back to her lonely house, she found a letter from Doctor Lancaster, at Chequishnoc. He asked if she had anything special in view in the way of work; she ought to rest, but he supposed she would not; if not, why their assistant teacher at the high-school was just getting married; would she take the place for the spring term? She could board in his family; the work was not hard-small school-fair pay-time to paint, or, better still, to rest-would she come?

The next day she was on her way, and a week saw her quite at home in Doctor Lancaster's pleasant family. He had a lovely wife and two daughters, bright, sweet New England girls. One of them wanted to take drawing-lessons of her, and, by teaching her, Kathleen could pay her board.

She grew almost contented in the new, restful

home atmosphere; with a quiet yielding to the inevitable, which was almost sad in one so young. She was but twenty-four, and she seemed to have lived her life. Patient, brave, and hopeful, she was still even merry sometimes, and no one suspected the hidden sorrow that darkened the young life. No one, save, perhaps, Doctor Lancaster, who, with the keen insight of his profession, sometimes watched her closely, and possibly read in the pale face and patient mouth more than he ever spoke of to any one. Certainly he uttered no word; only treated her always with unfailing kindness and tender solicitude.

So the spring passed away. June came, the rare, sweet days bringing to Kathleen memories of that June one year ago.

Again it was midsummer. Her term of school was over, but the Lancasters would not let her go away. She had quite a class of private scholars in drawing and painting. She was already engaged for the next school year, to open in September. One warm Sunday morning, toward the last of July, she came down ready for church, wearing a dress of some thin black material with a knot of white lace at her throat, and a little plain hat of black straw with only a fold of lace around the crown, and a tiny white ruche under the brim.

The black dress made her look paler even than usual, and Doctor Lancaster, meeting her in the hall, exclaimed: "My child, you are not well; don't go out this hot day."

She smiled. "Just as well as usual, my dear doctor, and I think I must go this morning; Mr. Peters is depending upon me for that solo, I think, and he does not like to have any one fail, you know, especially now that there is so much company in town."

well-trained choir of fresh young voices, and was always looking out for new talent. He had not been long in discovering that Kathleen possessed a remarkably sweet contralto,-not strong, but with rare depth and wonderful pathos,-and had lost no time in securing her services. Just now Chequishnoc, like all attractive country towns, was full of summer visitors, and Mr. Peters took much pride in being able to show the city visitors that good music was occasionally to be heard in the country.

He was proud of Kathleen, too, and had selected for this Sabbath morning a fine anthem for the opening of service, with a solo passage especially adapted to her voice. She was a little late, thanks to Doctor Lancaster, and as she entered she saw that the house was unusually full. It was a new church, built but a few years previously, and the choir and organ were directly in the rear of the pulpit. The voluntary was just over, and the choir were taking their places for the anthem. There was a little hum of expectation through the congregation, and a slight bustle as some strangers were ushered in and seated in a prominent position. Then all was hushed as the first sweet words floated out.

"O Lord, our desires are before Thee, and our griefs are not hid from Thine eyes,"

sang the sweet alto voice, with the stifled pleading of a heart to which this was no unfamiliar prayer. And the chorus answered:

"Like as a father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear Him."

Again:

"O Thou that hearest prayer, unto Thee shall all flesh come,"

"Thank you, doctor, but I think I must go this morning; don't be afraid. I never faint, and I am quite well," answered Kathleen, and ran hastily out, to avoid further discussion.

Chequishnoc church was not far from Doctor Lancaster's, and had attained quite a celebrity among the neighboring towns for its fine music. Mr. Peters, the chorister, was a true musical enthusiast, with a clear, well-cultivated voice, and a genius for organizing and developing the somewhat crude material at his command. He had a

up the refrain and repeated it in low chanting measure, while the sweet voice rose higher, thrilling with passionate longing, and sinking softly at last to a low, restful strain, growing fainter, and then blending triumphantly in the grand "Amen."

People whispered, "What a sweet voice!" and some of the city visitors said, "Who would have expected anything equal to this up here in this out-of-the-way place?"

One of the strangers who came in last, a tall, fair gentleman, leaned forward as the first note fell on his ear and listened spellbound, and he